


Thick as a Brick

by oafster



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oafster/pseuds/oafster
Summary: When Makalov falls on harder times than usual, he is forced to turn to less savoury means to cover his rent.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Thick as a Brick

Makalov put his last coin into the slot machine and pulled the lever. The whole session had gone very poorly indeed, and by this point, he was very much in the mood for a win. He desperately needed that coin to go into the slot machine and come back out with many more beside it. His rent was due soon and he needed to scrape something together. As the reels spun round and round, he clasped his hands and prayed that fortune might smile upon him. Round and round the pictures spun, the fruit and the sevens, the bars and the bells, but he couldn’t bear to witness the result of that final spin. He closed his eyes and looked away. Finally, after what felt like hours of waiting, he heard each of the reels click into place. Tentatively, he looked up, eyes squinting as if that would make it less painful to see.

Junk. That was it. Makalov had always been carefree with his money, rarely having much of it, but this was the most broke he’d been for as long as he could remember. He did have an income, at least of sorts, in the form of the government’s welfare policies for those living in poverty, but he managed to ‘lose’ most of this month’s payment, and he didn’t really fancy falling behind on his rent. But, much more importantly, he was pubbing tomorrow. If he couldn’t get anything together, he wouldn’t be able to afford any drinks… Actually, no, he could scrounge some drinks from his friends, he just needed to make sure he was in the loo every time they needed another round. The pub was still on.

The rent, however, he couldn’t hide from that. He’d tried to luck himself some money, and the slot machines wouldn’t have it. Usually, he would just ask Marcia, and she would shout and howl and berate him, and then give him exactly what he wanted. It was definitely worth the earful, or it had been, but even he could tell that he was starting to take the piss. Putting petty change into a slot machine at half-eleven in the morning was not how he had pictured his adult life. He needed to be responsible! And what do responsible adults do when they don’t know what to do? They ask a more a responsible adult.

So Makalov went to the pub. It was owned jointly by Calill and Largo, but it was just called _Calill’s_ , which was Largo’s idea. He said he wanted to name it after the most important thing in his life. When Makalov went inside, he found Largo at the bar, and Calill nowhere to be seen. That was perfect, he thought, as Largo was always more willing to help him out, whereas Calill, a businesswoman to the bone, was better at stern looks and condemnation.

It had just gone noon when Makalov came to Calill’s, so they had only been open for a matter of minutes, and he was the first person to come in. He found Largo idly polishing a glass, wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a thick mat of hair on his chest, and the sleeves rolled up to the same effect. They greeted each other warmly, and Makalov sat on a stool at the bar opposite Largo.

“Largo,” he said, “I have a… uh… question.” He wanted to sound as open and honest as he could, to make the question as unthreatening as possible.

Largo’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah?” he said.

“Yeah.” Makalov folded his arms on the bar. “You see, I’m… in a bit of a pickle. Monetarily, that is.”

Largo nodded, silently urging Makalov to say more.

Largo wasn’t as forthcoming as Makalov had hoped he would be. “My rent’s due soon, and…” He took a moment to think how best to put things, “I’ve come up a bit short.” He gave a cheeky grin. Maybe Largo would find it endearing.

“I’m not lending you anything,” said Largo.

Shit. This was not the trusting and intimate atmosphere that Makalov had hoped to foster. “Oh no, no,” he sputtered, “I’m not asking you to lend me anything.”

“Then what _do_ you want?” Largo asked. “I can’t remember the last time you didn’t want something from me!”

“Just advice.”

“You want to know how to juggle?” asked Largo.

“What? No, why…?” Makalov had no idea how Largo managed to interpret a request for advice as a request for a juggling lesson. “No, never mind.” Makalov did not want to pursue Largo’s train of thought. “If you ran into money problems, what would you do?”

Largo grinned widely. “I’d ask Calill what to do!”

“No, I can’t ask Calill. She’ll bite my ears off. I can already hear her shouting about being frugal and responsible and all that.” Makalov put his head down, resting his chin on his arms.

“Why don’t you get a loan?” asked Largo. “Pay ‘em back nice and quick, and all’s good!” Makalov furrowed his eyebrows, and Largo caught on. “Oh, yeah… Good luck with that.”

“Yeah… I might just have to ask Marcia again.”

“Why not?”

“Because I keep doing it—”

Largo slammed his giant fist against the bar. “Don’t tell me hell’s frozen over!” he shouted jubilantly. “Makalov? With self-awareness?!” He leapt over the bar, ran to the window, and pressed his face against it. “Quick!” he shouted. “We might see some pigs flying!”

“Ha-ha…” Makalov said sarcastically. “Very funny. I just… maybe I should lay off the begging, at least for a while.”

After a brief moment, Calill came in from the back room, having heard the commotion. “What’s going on in here?” she asked.

“Makalov’s broke again and he wants money,” said Largo, while Makalov desperately contorted his face and shook his head, imploring him to stop.

“Get a job,” said Calill. “That’s the only way you’re getting anything.”

“I need it, like, in the next few days.”

“What happened to all your money?” asked Calill. “You must have something?”

Makalov suddenly became very nervous, sweat starting to clam up his hands. “I… lost it,” he said.

“You lost it?” asked Calill.

“Yeah…?” He didn’t sound to have all too much conviction in his answer.

“How did you ‘lose’ it?”

“It’s… that’s not important.”

“Do you know,” said Calill, “I actually think it is.” She glared at Makalov with such casual disdain that he thought her very eyes would tear his soul from him.

“I just thought…” Makalov was now getting really very uncomfortable. “Maybe I could, like, take what I had, and… make it more…?”

“You gambled it away?”

“No… well, yeah.”

If looks could kill.

Makalov sputtered and fumbled his words in a desperate bid to not seem entirely foolish, but it only made him look all the worse. Largo found Makalov’s squirming hilarious.

“You’ve made your bed,” said Calill, “now it’s time to lie in it.”

“I guess…” Makalov sullenly put his head on the bar, when a thought struck him. “Actually,” he said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “I have another question.” He wanted his proposition to be the least threatening it could be, even less threatening than the last.

Largo and Calill both pricked up their ears, eager to hear what Makalov would come out with next.

“You know as well as I do that the banks won’t lend me anything.”

They nodded in agreement.

Makalov feigned the most convincing laughter he could, hoping to sound friendly and trustworthy. “Yeah… Would you, perhaps… be my guarantor?” Makalov asked as politely as he could, only a hair’s breadth from a ceremonial bow.

“Fuck off,” scoffed Calill, without missing a beat.

Largo howled in outrageous laughter. “That was a good one, pal!”

Calill had more to say. “Why the fuck would I agree to be your guarantor? Do you think I’m an idiot or something?” She struck Makalov on the side of his head with a magazine from behind the bar. “If you think I’m letting them repossess my pub because you can’t repay your loan, you’d better get your head out of your miserable little arse!”

That was a very sore blow. He knew Calill wouldn’t say yes to that, but if even Largo wouldn’t agree, it was very doubtful that anyone else would.

“You sure?” Makalov asked Largo in desperate hope.

“Not a chance, pal,” said Largo.

Makalov slumped on the stool. “Thanks anyway,” he said. He stood up and skulked deflated from the pub. Just to be sure, he asked around among everyone else he could think of, and as he thought, no one wanted to guarantee his repayment. No one even wanted to go anywhere near the whole affair. All except Marcia. He knew Marcia would help him out, she did every time, and he didn’t want to force her hand right now. She didn’t need to know.

* * * * * * *

One small loan couldn’t hurt, could it? He’d surely be able to pay it back soon enough, even accounting for some interest. After all, if there was one thing Makalov was good at, it was pulling cash out of his arse by any means necessary. He could try his luck again and win big in some casino or ask for a favour from a friend. That hadn’t worked this time, but in the future? Who knows? People might be more willing later on. Or, if push came to shove, he could always sell some stuff. He would typically be reluctant to do that; he didn’t have much stuff to sell to begin with, so if he started selling stuff every time he needed to cover a debt, he’d quickly start selling organs, maybe even Marcia if he could get the jump on her.

There was just one small issue: there was no way in hell a bank would ever loan him money, not with his credit score, and he had learnt the hard way that no one was willing to guarantee his repayments. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and when money is tight, it’s got to come from somewhere. There was only one thing for it.

Through a series of dodgy phone calls and text messages, Makalov had made arrangements to acquire a loan of a more questionable sort. He had been given directions to a certain shady back-alley and had been told to arrive at 7 p.m. and await the arrival of his contact ten minutes later. Hoping to make a good first impression, he arrived at seven on the dot, his shoes freshly shined and wearing the finest aftershave he could find in his parents’ bathroom.

The alleyway in question was very much par for the course as far as unfriendly alleyways were concerned. The drab and dreary grey was accented with the usual puddles of week-old rainwater, infused with pigeon droppings and the contents of upturned bins which spilt food wrappers and used needles onto the floor, a concoction garnished with the occasional dead rat to really bring out that classic alleyway reek. The whole place was damp and close, with moss caking the walls and the eery silence punctuated only by the sporadic dripping of a leaky pipe. It was unpleasant even to breathe in that dank corridor; the air felt thick and suffocating, and he could taste it, and it didn’t taste good. At least Makalov was not wholly out of place among the trash.

Those ten minutes of waiting felt like an eternity, but sure enough, at ten past seven, he heard a car pull up at the end of the alley, and the door open. A man got out and shut the door behind him, and then he started down the alley. He was a very large man, tall and broad, and very rugged, but only just handsomely so. His hair was a long shock of purple to match his little moustache, and there was a rather large mole just beneath his left eye. His neck was burdened with a necklace strung with the most beautiful sapphire beads: his was a very gaudy appearance, tawdry and vulgar, and not at all appropriate for back-alley dealings.

As the man approached Makalov, he raised one hand. “Makalov?” he asked.

Makalov nodded, trying not to seem half as terrified as he was.

“Call me Gash.” His voice was very deep and harsh, although his words were well-articulated, marked with eager pretension.

Makalov nodded dutifully.

“Short for Gashilama. Makes me sound cool, I find.” Gashilama reached into his pocket and withdrew two bundles of notes and a cheque. “Here,” he said, forcing it into Makalov’s hand. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

As Gashilama turned, starting to leave, Makalov finally spoke. “What about the… repayment.”

“I’ll send someone. You’ll know us when you see us.”

Makalov was still new to the world of loansharking, and he wasn’t quite sure of all of the details. “But—”

“Don’t think I don’t know where you are.” Gashilama gave Makalov a stern look, his eyes barely disguising the berserk fury that simmered within. “I’ll send someone, and you’ll pay them. If you’re lucky, I’ll come myself. Got it?”

“Er… yes, yes.” Makalov nodded.

“Good.”

Gashilama said nothing more. He coolly returned to his car and drove away, leaving Makalov standing alone in the alleyway with a fist full of money and stomach full of terror. He shoved the money in his pocket just in time to thrust his hand against the wall and vomit onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then went home as quickly as he could, trying to act naturally so that no one would know about the dirty dealings in which he’d just involved himself.

Once he was home, and only once the door was firmly locked and the curtains closed, he took the money from his pocket and laid it on the small plastic garden table that he used as a dining table. Sitting on the table so, it didn’t look as much as it was, so he took a moment just to feel the notes in his hand (it was rare that he had so much cash all at once), and then made sure to count it, and he did indeed have the pre-arranged amount. The rent was covered. Now, only one thing remained: the pub.

* * * * * * *

It was 9 p.m. when Makalov came to Calill’s that evening, and he was sure to have a portion of the money which had come into his possession in his pocket. He was, as ever, the first to arrive, so he sat at the bar and spoke to Largo. It was a Tuesday, so the pub wasn’t very busy, and Largo was very willing to lend him an ear.

After the typical pleasantries, Largo leant on the bar in front of Makalov, his big hairy chest sitting perfectly at eye-level. “Any luck sorting your rent out?” he asked.

When Makalov heard this, he took a sharp breath in and sat upright, his eyes flaring with shame and his hands becoming clammy with sweat. After a brief moment of frantic nodding, Makalov finally managed to collect some sense. “All’s good,” he strained to say.

Largo cocked an eyebrow up. “All doesn’t sound good,” he said.

Makalov needed a quick lie. Something realistic. Something believable. “My granny died,” he said.

“Fuck,” said Largo, standing upright. “You okay?”

“Yeah… I didn’t really know her all that well.” Makalov did, in fact, know both his grandmothers very well, and both were very much alive and thriving. “She left me some inheritance.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess.”

Makalov nodded in agreement, feigning solemnity.

Largo put his great hand tenderly on Makalov’s shoulder. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you can always count on me, pal.”

“Thanks,” said Makalov, patting Largo’s hand. This was starting to get too much. He needed to change the subject. “How’s Calill?”

“I’m fine,” said Calill, emerging from the back room as if summoned like the devil, and then slinking back out of view.

“Well… that clears that up,” said Makalov.

“You want anything?” asked Largo.

“Just a pint for now. The usual.”

As Largo was pouring Makalov’s drink, Marcia and Astrid came into the bar. They had come from a meeting of their university’s Stable Society, a society run by horse lovers for horse lovers. As soon as Makalov saw Marcia, he leapt up and shouted, pointing at the men’s room. “A rat! A rat!” Largo was startled and looked up. “I saw a rat!” Makalov shouted again. “It ran into the men’s room.”

Largo grabbed the broom from behind the bar and strode over to the toilets, ready for battle, while Makalov followed behind him. Largo looked around the toilets but couldn’t find a rat anywhere. “You sure you saw a rat?”

“Positive! I saw it scuttle in here clear as day.”

Largo looked around again but he still found no rat. “Must have run into a little hole somewhere. We’ll have to get some exterminators to come and sort this out. Bloody expensive, these pests.”

As Largo was leaving, Makalov positioned himself between Largo and the door. “By the way,” he ventured, delicately, “I think it would be best if you didn’t mention my granny to Marcia.” Makalov contorted his face into his best approximation of sadness. “She was much closer to her than I was. Best not to bring her up while we’re trying to take our minds off it.”

Largo nodded, still fretting about the rat. “Sure, sure,” he said.

Makalov felt bad for lying about spotting a rat, but it was necessary to cover the first lie. “Great,” he said, thanking the goddess that Largo was as trusting and gullible as he was. Coming out of the men's room, Largo went straight to the back room to inform Calill of the incident, funnelling all of his willpower into not trying to console Marcia. Makalov slunk behind him, aiming for the table where she was sitting with Astrid.

“What was that all about?” asked Marcia.

“I saw a rat,” said Makalov. “But don’t worry,” he added, noting the slight disgust on their faces, “it was just—”

Makalov stopped in his tracks when he saw a squat and burly old man walk into the bar. He had a big handlebar moustache, brown streaked with grey, and his face was scarred and wrinkled. He wore weathered denim jeans and a matching jacket, with a pair of sunglasses atop his head. Makalov was certain that he was a debt collector come for the repayments already.

He sat there staring at the man transfixed with terror until Astrid spoke. “Makalov?” she said.

As the man sat at a table with a woman of similar age, Makalov came to his senses. “Sorry, I got a bit… distracted.”

“You’re not drunk already are you?” asked Astrid, with a playful smile.

“No, because I’m still waiting on my pint!” he said, giving Largo a silly look.

Makalov spent the rest of the evening sick with worry. He feared that someone would uncover his lie about the rat. He feared that someone would uncover his lie about his dead granny. He feared that someone would uncover the dirty money by which he had come. But most of all, he feared that every other person coming into the bar was a debt collector, eager to strip him of his fingernails and stomp on his knees. First was the old man rocking double denim, then it was a tall and broad woman with striking blue hair and full bike leathers, and then a man in a sharp suit and with a mean look in his eye, the very image of a criminal accountant out on the prowl. It was all too much to bear, so he did the only reasonable thing and bought a platter of twenty-four shots for the table, although he did half of them himself. He’d feel much better about everything if he were shitfaced.

Twelve shots of sambuca later, Makalov really was feeling an awful lot better. His spirits had lifted, and his worries felt miles away. Such was his merriment that he became, in that manliest of manners, eager to boast. While Marcia was at the bar buying another (smaller) round of shots, Makalov wrapped his arm around Astrid and said, proudly, “Y’know, Astrid…”

“What?” said Astrid. She was far from sober herself.

“I’m well gan’ster, innit.” His words were slightly slurred. “Y’ever need a favour, ask me… I got street cred, y’know?”

“Did you ever kill a man?” asked Astrid. “You’re not cool 'nless you kill a man.”

“NO!” shouted Makalov. “That’s…” He took a handful of notes from his pocket. “See this… got it from a loan shark! He’s gonna break my legs if I don’t repay him!” Makalov laughed aloud, and Astrid joined him.

After a moment, he realised what he’d said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Don’t tell Marcia, kay?” he said hurriedly.

“Kay!” said Astrid, extending her pinkie finger. “I promise!”

Makalov sealed the promise, and, amazingly, nothing more was said of it as the rest of the evening went by in a drunken stupor. Makalov wobbled home at three in the morning, buying himself a kebab on the way. Dared to do so by Marcia, he soon dropped it half-eaten into a post box. Once he finally came home, he fell asleep on the floor by the door and didn’t awake until one in the afternoon, laden with the most awful headache and the foulest pain in his back, his face wet with drool and his front all stained with vomit. It was a beautiful end to an ugly day indeed.


End file.
